


Three-Legged Racing (Can Be an Aphrodisiac)

by Elucreh



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elucreh/pseuds/Elucreh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon met Spencer Smith through this guy Dallon, with whom he had bonded at his second label party over the fact that they knew <i>nobody there</i>, what the fuck. It was his third label party that Dallon introduced him to the producer the label had handed him over to like a lamb to the slaughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three-Legged Racing (Can Be an Aphrodisiac)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for reni_days's prompt "Spencer/Brendon, casual sex turning to more" for the 2011 No Tags promptfest as a last-minute pinch-hit; unbetaed (sorry)

Brendon met Spencer Smith through this guy Dallon, with whom he had bonded at his second label party over the fact that they knew _nobody there_ , what the fuck. It was his third label party that Dallon introduced him to the producer the label had handed him over to like a lamb to the slaughter.

It was possible that Brendon had been hugely intimidated by the tiny redheaded _actual fucking Patrick Stump_ that his A &R guy had fed his demo to that very afternoon. Whatever.

Spencer was busy telling Dallon all kinds of soothing lies about wanting his input and hoping to guide the creative process and small adjustments to the original music when Brendon dove in between them to the bar and stole a shot the bartender had just poured.

“My need is greater than your need,” he told Dallon, making puppy dog eyes at him and signaling for another, which he actually intended to drink as well.

“I'm Mormon, dude,” Dallon said, raising an eyebrow, and Brendon blinked. Usually his faithdar was better than that. “That was his shot.”

Brendon shifted the puppy eyes up to eleven before turning to face the—wow, totally hot stranger Dallon had been chatting with. “I'm so sorry, dude, I totally thought I was stealing from Dallon. And he sucks, anyway, and also he got _Spencer Smith_ in the draw and I'm stuck with a tiny redheaded terror, so clearly, I needed alcohol way more than he did.”

“'Sall right,” the bearded stranger said, and offered a hand. “Spencer Smith. Sorry to hear I don't strike fear in your heart.”

Brendon hit himself in the forehead and tried not to actually die of embarrassment before his first album was released. Spencer bought him another drink.

Spencer's bedroom was way too sunny for Brendon's hangover, but he kept extra toothbrushes and he was willing to provide a lift to the studios, so Brendon forgave him this egregious error in window dressing and accepted a booty call three weeks later.

*~*~*~*~*

It went on like that.

Spencer's place was fifteen minutes from Brendon's, and they wound up at a lot of the same parties. Brendon was getting to know the techs and producers who hung around FBR, and there was almost always somebody willing to offer up his or her own booze or weed for the general consumption, and Brendon went along because it was better than going back to the bare label apartment and fussing at the tracks that Patrick refuses to let him mess with on his own anyway.

He doesn't really know what Spencer's excuse was, but he was often there, and they had a drink or two, and chatted with all of the fairly nice people, and sometime during the night Spencer raised an eyebrow and one of them followed the other home.

It goes on like that, sort of. The album comes out, it makes money, a little, anyway, enough, and Brendon goes on tour. The tour does better—Patrick says Brendon has stage presence, which is kind of laughable, but whatever. They sent Brendon out with Dallon's band, so Spencer drops by occasionally on his way somewhere else.

They have messy, cramped, uncomfortable sex in the van, once, but mostly it's handjobs in venue bathrooms and blowing in backalleys and laughing with the Brobecks over Cokes and root beer until three in the morning. They drop Spencer off at three airports on their way from tiny venue to tiny venue. Spencer brings him Apple Jacks in California and laundry detergent in Missouri. Brendon dedicates a cover of “Yellow Submarine” to Spencer in Florida, and Spencer throws half a hot dog at him.

He wends his way back to California with a little more negotiating power for the second album, sick to death of his first songs even though he still loves them. He wants to launch the songs he's been writing on the road, kickass songs about freedom and laundromats and friendship and spaghetti-os; he wants to make every dumbass kid with an iPod long for two o'clock hashbrowns and the hum of guitar strings against fingers.

Patrick's on tour, and he panics a little, because hell, getting used to fighting with Patrick was bad enough, and now that he's talked to his labelmates he knows Patrick was _easy_ , because Patrick at least believed in music above all else.

His A&R guy spoons out lies about comfort levels and creative control and possibly click tracks, Brendon isn't really listening as they walk toward the studio, two down and three east from the last studio. He's going to get some corporate asshole with a bottom line for a heart, he knows it, he just knows it, until he opens the door and it's Spencer standing there.

And well.

This is going to be awkward.

*~*~*~*~*

It is, and it isn't. They live in each other's pockets, they fight over the pizza toppings and the breaks and the music, fuck do they fight over the music. Spencer isn't a corporate asshole, but he's got really strong ideas about percussion and he's not backing down on the backing vocals.

“It's _the single most dumbass idea I've ever heard_ ,” Brendon says, exaggerating maybe a little for effect around a mouthful of taco. “Harmonizing with _myself_? You realise I don't grow an extra head on stage, dude?”

“You don't grow twelve arms, either, dumbass,” Spencer says. “But here on the list of credits, we have Brendon Urie, keyboard, Brendon Urie, guitar, Brendon Urie, bass, Brendon Urie, tambourine...”

“That's all _pre-recorded_ ,” Brendon says, putting down his taco and scowling at Spencer. “I can't harmonize with a prerecorded voice, it'll sound like some emo kid's thought experiment with pingpong balls.”

“Not that your pingpong balls don't deserve their moment in the spotlight,” Spencer says gravely, and Brendon makes a face at him. “But we could put someone else on stage with you. We can get the money out of the label, they love you right now.”

“No,” Brendon says, immediately. “No, it's _mine_ , dude, I don't want a stranger--”

Spencer interrupts him by smashing their lips together. So apparently they're doing that, still.

Spencer wins six arguments. Brendon wins four. Spencer deserves to win seven, probably, but Brendon's got a new thing with his tongue he found on the internet specifically for purposes of adding cello to the final track. He almost bleeds out from the hickey Spencer gives him over track order, though, so he figure's it's a pretty fair trade.

*~*~*~*~*

They lock the album up for two days when it's finished, and then Spencer buys champagne and pops the cork like a crazy person _in the studio_.

They listen all the way through, twice, the second time looping through the air as their legs tangle, as their lips slide together, as their zippers snag and the lube is lost and Brendon maybe overwhelms some of the background flute with tiny, pathetic whimpers.

They lie in the dark and pant as the music ebbs away and starts to loop for the third time. Spencer scrambles up and goes to the control panel to stop it. Brendon lies back against the scratchy carpet and takes his eyeful appreciatively.

“I was thinking,” he says, carefully. “You play, right?”

Spencer frowns at him a little. “Yeah. Drums. Why?”

“I was thinking,” Brendon says again. “It might be handy to have a second pair of arms up there. Even a second head.”

Spencer looks at him for a long moment.

“Especially a head I could make out with, without worrying about narcissistic complexes.”

There's another pause, and then Spencer snorts like he just can't help himself. Brendon can barely hear the, “Yeah, okay,” tucked into the chortles.


End file.
